What a report he would have for the Department--if he lived to make it! On paper there would be a good deal of comedy about it--this burrowing oneself up like a hibernating woodchuck, and then being invited out to breakfast by a man with a club and a pack of brutes with fangs that had gleamed at him like ivory stilettos.

He had guessed at the club, and a moment later as he thrust his sleeping-bag out through the opening he saw that it was quite obviously a correct one.

Bram was possessing himself of the revolver and the knife.

In the same hand he held his whip and a club.
Seizing the opportunity, Philip followed his bed quickly, and when Bram faced him he was standing on his feet outside the drift.
"Morning, Bram!" His greeting was drowned in a chorus of fierce snarls that made his blood curdle even as he tried to hide from Bram any visible betrayal of the fact that every nerve up and down his spine was pricking him, like a pin.

From Bram's throat there shot forth at the pack a sudden sharp clack of Eskimo, and with it the long whip snapped in their faces again.
Then he looked steadily at his prisoner.